


We Can Work It Out

by RoonilWazlibMalfoy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Veela Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 22:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19029058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoonilWazlibMalfoy/pseuds/RoonilWazlibMalfoy
Summary: Draco Malfoy is being stalked. He's not in danger, he's just annoyed.





	We Can Work It Out

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a story prompt challenge for the Hogwarts facebook group. I think I was overly ambitious for a story challenge with a word limit, so it's not nearly as fleshed out as I'd like. But I think it makes sense decently enough. Thanks for reading!

“Can you stop making a mess of my kitchen? I just cleaned, like, yesterday.” Draco Malfoy was in a foul mood. He stalked around, pulling things out of cabinets and dumping them on counters, pale blonde hair flying loose from the bun it had been secured in. “What’s got you in such a snit anyway?” Pansy asked him.

“Oh please, you know you never clean anyway. Your mother’s house elves do it for you and they’ll do it again when I leave,” he answered her. He had settled on a tin of fancy biscuits that had been hidden behind an old package of tea bags. “And I’m not in a snit. I’m being stalked,” he fumed, tearing open the biscuit tin.

Her expression immediately shifted to one of concern. “Oh no, darling, are you okay? Do you know who it is? Have you gone to the aurors?” Draco’s past meant that he occasionally had crazy people after him. Most of the wizarding world had accepted that he had served his time under house arrest and was reformed, or at least they no longer spit on him in public, but this wouldn’t be the first time someone was intent on hurting him.

“I’m fine, Pansy. I’m just pissed off. Yes, I know who it is and I can’t go to the aurors because he is one.”

Pansy looked at him calculatingly as she put a long, thin cigarette to her lips and lit it. After a beat, her eyes lit up and she cackled. “Oh, Draco! Darling. Please tell me you’re not talking about Potter. We’ve been through this before…”

“I know we’ve been through it before and I was right then, too! I’ve got the scars to prove it.” She sobered at that thought. “He’s stalking me Pansy! Every time I leave the house, there’s Potter, with his stupid glasses and his stupid hair, staring at me like the dopey git he is. Merlin only knows what he’s thinking this time. I’m not that scared little death eater boy anymore,” he spat, scowling down at his arm which was covered, as always, in long dark sleeves.

“Hmm. Well, I’m sure whatever it is will come out soon. Maybe he’s working on a case where you might be threatened?” she guessed, a little worried at that thought. “He’s not the same boy anymore either, darling. He spoke up at your trial and that was years ago. I’m sure there’s a reason for it, but I’ll go anywhere you like with you until you figure it out,” she rubbed his back, trying to calm him down. She hadn’t seen him acting so dramatic in ages. Potter always had made his emotions run high. She just hoped he wouldn’t get hurt this time.

 

A few hours and a few fancy biscuits later and Draco had calmed down considerably. Maybe there was a reason for it and maybe he really was just imagining it, but either way, Potter would hardly slice him open in public these days. He had convinced Pansy he didn’t need an escort just to buy potions ingredients, knowing that she’d be bored and whiney if she came along anyway. He liked to pick his ingredients by hand and he took his time with it. His clients paid good money for his beauty creams and hair potions, and to make those, he needed to work with the best ingredients available. 

He had just started poking through a jar of bat spleens with a long wooden spoon when he heard the door open and the store clerk say “Good afternoon, Mister Potter! How can I help you today?” Draco rolled his eyes. Honestly, they were never that excited to see him and he spent real money here. Everyone knew Potter couldn’t brew even a first year potion to save his life.

He heard Potter reply, “Thanks, I’m just browsing today,” and rolled his eyes. There was no way the great Harry Potter was browsing for beetle eyes or dragon scales.

He wheeled around and fixed Potter with a sharp glare, his grey eyes stormy, hand gripping his wand tightly. “Why are you following me, Potter?” he hissed. “I have done nothing wrong and you clearly don’t use any product on that head of yours, much less a product of mine, so you can’t be coming to me for fashion advice. Why am I being subjected to your presence? Scarhead.” He knew he should be ashamed of that last dig. It hadn’t been a good insult when he was 12 and it was even worse at 26, but Potter always brought out the worst in him. It was then he realized he wasn’t actually brandishing a wand threateningly at Potter; he was waving around a wooden spoon covered in bat spleen. He lowered the spoon and returned it to the jar, feeling sheepish, but still glaring.

Potter just stared at him like a lost puppy. No insult, no anger… it was a bit disconcerting seeing that soppy look on his face. “I just…” Potter started. Draco raised his pale eyebrows impatiently. “I needed to make sure you were okay. That, er. That you’re alright, that is. You are, aren’t you? Alright?” 

At least Potter had the presence of mind to look embarrassed after that. “Still coherent as ever, eh, Potter?” he drawled. His old pureblood mask slipped onto his face almost too easily when faced with the Boy Who Lived. “Yes, Potter. I am, er, alright,” he said sarcastically. “Will that be all, then? Can you stop following me now?”

Potter blinked back at him for a moment. Then he seemed to gather his courage and, green eyes bright, he shocked Draco nearly speechless. “Draco. Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

It was Draco’s turn to splutter at that. “Wha-? Potter, are you fucking kidding me? Merlin and Morgana both! You’ve been stalking me for a week, scaring both myself and Pansy half to death, by the way, to ask me on a date?” Draco was furious! And a little turned on. But mostly Draco was furious! How dare Potter treat him this way and expect him to just fall into whatever kinky little death eater fantasy was going through his head? “Leave me alone, Potter,” he said firmly, and turned to leave the store, robes swishing in a way that would have made Severus proud.

“Draco, wait!” Potter called. Why on earth was Potter calling him Draco? They were decidedly not on friendly terms. They hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other since the trial, and those had been tense but polite greetings when formality dictated the necessity. This was insanity! Sure, there had been those nights in sixth year that he couldn’t get his mind off Potter’s shabby hair and narrow but muscular frame. But that was clearly stress-induced. He was not at his best in sixth year. He paused, closed his eyes and ran a hand through his pale hair.

“Can’t you take a hint, Potter?” he asked through clenched teeth. “We aren’t friends. You rejected me practically before we met and we have no reason to pretend otherwise. We don’t like each other, we fight horribly, and I’m not sure why you’re following me, but it’s not going to work.”

Potter just continued looking at him steadily. If he didn’t know better, Draco would think there were tears shining in those bright green eyes, but certainly it was the glare on the git’s glasses. The Chosen One would never be crying over the likes of Draco Malfoy. “Draco,” he started, “Malfoy. I think maybe I’ve been cursed and I think it might be affecting you too and I just want to get to the bottom of it so we can both move on with our lives. Okay?” He held out his hand in a gesture that was pure irony, waiting for Draco to take it.  


Draco ignored that calloused brown hand in a way that was not at all childish. He definitely didn’t notice the way Potter’s nails were bitten down to nothing or the pale scar that looked like writing on the back of it. While he was completely ignoring that outstretched hand, he made a decision. “Fine, Potter. Fine,” he said, “if it’s something like that, I’m sure we can get along for long enough to figure it out. You may pick me up at 7. And this is not a date,” he snapped, immediately turning and leaving Potter standing there with his hand still stretched out and a goofy half-grin on his face.

At 6:45 that evening, Draco began really wondering what on earth he’d gotten himself in to. He and Potter could not get along. They’d both end up doubly cursed, once by whatever Potter had wanted to talk about and once each by the other. There was no way they could work together, even for something like this. There was too much history. And too much passion, if he was being honest with himself. But no, honesty could wait. There was a knock at the door, and he wiped his sweaty palms and headed to open it. At least Potter was punctual.

At least Potter cleaned up well! Merlin and Morgana, how on earth was he supposed to get through dinner with a man he hated with a passion who looked like that? He was wearing muggle clothes, which made Draco smirk. He’d assumed correctly. But these muggle clothes were a huge leap from the oversized jeans and ratty trainers he had worn at Hogwarts. Harry Potter looked great and he also looked like he knew it.

“Like what you see, Draco?” he winked. He actually winked.

Draco rolled his eyes, ignoring his inner turmoil. “Let’s get this over with, Potter,” he drawled.

 

As it turned out, they had a very pleasant evening. Potter had taken him to a small muggle Italian place that had amazing garlic bread and he turned out to be both and interesting and funny conversationalist. Draco found himself almost wishing they could do it again sometime. After desert, Potter had offered to take him back to his place so that they could discuss the curse in private, and Draco had accepted. He held Potter’s arm tightly as he apparated them both to a townhouse in a rundown neighborhood.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Draco drawled sarcastically.

Potter chuckled. “It’s better on the inside. I inherited it and it was pretty bad, but I’ve done a lot of work on the interior.” He led Draco in the front door and he was forced to admit that Potter was right. The inside was better. It was actually quite nice. Comfortable but tastefully decorated. He saw pictures of the Weasel and Granger on the walls as well as of a small boy with teal hair who looked vaguely familiar. 

A decrepit house elf brought them a pot of tea on a silver tray and things started to go down hill from there. The elf’s droopy eyes brightened when he spotted Draco. “It’s being nice having someone of your blood here, Mister Malfoy. Master doesn’t often entertain people of such purity,” he croaked, giving a sideways glance to Potter. Draco wasn’t sure what to think or say, so he just shifted uncomfortably until the elf had gone.

“Sorry about him,” Potter started. “He lived here for a long time before I got the place and he only had some pureblooded portraits to talk to. He’s gone a bit barmy, I’m afraid.” Draco murmured his acceptance and Potter continued describing the reasons he thought he might have been cursed and the effects he’d been feeling. He was clearly baffled, but Draco was feeling more and more uncomfortable the longer Potter spoke of feeling where Draco was and the need to protect him at all costs. As he spoke he drew nearer to Draco, almost as if he couldn’t help himself or didn’t realize he was doing it.

Finally Potter came to a stop and Draco put his head in his hands. After a moment, his grey eyes met Harry’s green ones (yes, he’d certainly have to call him Harry now) and he sighed. “Potter. Erm, Harry. Do you have any veela blood in your ancestry?” he asked.

Harry jumped back, startled at the seeming randomness of the question. “No!,” he stuttered. “Er, I don’t think so, I mean.” He began to draw closer again.

Draco sighed again, “Because what you’re describing to me, Harry, is the early stages of a veela mating. I do have veela blood and have always known this might be a possibility.” That was true, but he had to admit that he was hoping he had grown too old for it to be much of a likelihood. Of course it would be Potter. Everything bad that happened to him always involved Potter. “You don’t really look like you’d be affected by it though,” Draco continued thoughtfully, almost more to himself than to Harry. “You don’t look like a veela. Is there anything else that would have sparked this? Have you taken any odd potions? A curse can’t cause a veela match.” 

“Well,” Harry started and Draco began to hope. If this was caused by a potion, it might be reversible. “A few weeks ago I was doused with a potion while we were infiltrating a drug dealing ring… But it was harmless! The healers told me it was harmless because it was made for…..” he stopped and looked helplessly at Draco.

“Well?” Draco asked. “What was it, Potter? We may still be able to fix this!”

Harry sighed. “It was for… I mean, many of the veela in Britain have been having complications because their blood is diluted and there aren’t many here. It was an experimental potion for helping veela find mates.”

Draco lost it at that. He started giggling, and then full out laughing, before he fell into hysterics, tears rolling down his porcelain skin. “Potter!” he gasped. “The best I can figure is this: your skin absorbed a veela potion in concentrated form. It brought out some very recessed genes that were apparently in the Potter’s bloodline somewhere along the way. And now you have a mate.” Draco buried his face in his hands and whispered, “And apparently so do I.” 

Harry jumped at that, realizing how close he was sitting to Draco. How their thighs were pressed against each other and how his hand was hovering over Draco’s bent back, ready to comfort him. As soon as his thoughts caught up to his body, he realized that what Draco was saying was the truth. And he realized that he didn’t mind so much. “Then we’ll just have to make it work, Draco. We will,” he lowered his hand to Draco’s back and began rubbing it softly. “We will make it work.”

 

2 years later…  
“Potter, stop messing up my kitchen! I just cleaned, like, yesterday!” Draco drawled.

"Oh, please, Draco,” Harry pulled him close. “You never clean. I do it for you. And anyway, I’m making you breakfast.”


End file.
